


It'll Take Some Getting Used To

by dearcst



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale has it bad, Fluff, Heavy pining good lord, Honestly guys, M/M, Pining, Post-Canon, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-05-31 15:10:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19428529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dearcst/pseuds/dearcst
Summary: In which Aziraphale finds himself with a newfound interest in romance novels and has a sudden realization about a certain demon best friend. Oh. Oh no.





	It'll Take Some Getting Used To

**Author's Note:**

> So that moment when you're trying to find a specific fic to read for your ship and can't find it???? That's me when I decided to write this, it's just want I wanted to read, and I had to put in the world now goddamn have your fic. It's probably a mess and I might rewrite parts of it bc I literally just wrote this in a few hours but heyyyyyyyy love me some ineffable husbands. pls comment/kudos love to know what you think

The post-Armageddon world is . . . quiet. The kind of quiet that you feel like rain. It comes unexpectedly, steadily, and encompasses every inch of your body. The kind of quiet you feel okay in. Like when you’re having a soft conversation with another person, and all that needs to be said has been said, and so the two of you sit there, and between the two of you sits the quiet. It’s quiet mostly because there are no more orders to follow. Of course, Aziraphale knows it’s completely expected after Heaven and Hell tried to kill them, but it’s a change he’s going to have to get used to all the same.

For the most part Aziraphale doesn’t know what to do with himself. Should he still be thwarting? Should he still be promoting Her will? Aziraphale doesn’t quite know. He supposes he can do anything he wants now. It’s an odd feeling. It’s like after being under watch every moment of his life he can finally roam free. Part of him still expects Gabriel to come back, to tell him he’s doing something he isn’t supposed to. He sits behind the desk of his bookshop and thinks about everything Gabriel wouldn’t approve of, about the books he reads and the things he eats and the people he talks to. When he lies down in bed, he thinks about how Gabriel would berate him because he knows he doesn’t need to sleep but sometimes it’s just fun to play along. Fun to be human for a little.

But Gabriel won’t be coming, and it’s a change he’s going to have to get used to. He’s walking aimlessly around his bookshop. The customers come in and out at a steady flow. Most of them come to sit and read. A handful or two come to the counter to purchase something, and Aziraphale chats idly about whatever book they are buying. Oh, he does _love_ this part. He has so many exciting things to talk about! He loves books and loves to talk about books with other people who love books. It’s a lovely time, really. He smiles absently, and breathes in slowly. Time moves. Not fast, not slow, but a way that feels different somehow. He’s getting used to it.

He takes a stack of books people had come to trade in and flips through them, thinking about where to place them in the shop. The book on top is something interesting, something that seems like a familiar romance novel, but not one he’d paid much attention to before now. He thinks he might take a closer look. As he opens the book, warm air rushes into shop from the street outside.

“Angel!” a familiar voice says from the door. “What would you say to a spot of lunch?”

Aziraphale’s face lifts and lights up. His heels bounce as he breathes out, “Crowley,” in response. A quiet, eager syllable.

Crowley leans against the door frame with one leg crossed over the other. His lips express a soft endearment.

He sets the books back on the counter and tells another bookkeeper that he’s going out for an hour or so. Bounding to the front door, he walks into step by Crowley’s side. The summer air hits his face again as they step onto the street, the sun, temperate and brilliant, casts their shadows behind them.

“It’s so lovely to see you,” Aziraphale says, and looking at Crowley feels like breathing after holding a long breath. He’s allowed to be like this now. He can talk to Crowley openly, be with him without looking over his shoulder. He doesn’t have to say yes or no to Crowley’s request because the answer is always the same. 

“Miss me too much?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale replies earnestly. “It truly is a nice day outside, too.”

He follows at Crowley’s side. They don’t say much as they walk, but it feels like novels sit between them. It’s only the second week since the world almost ended, but Aziraphale feels like it happened yesterday. Do they talk about it? He doesn’t know. He’s not sure if there’s anything left to say about it.

He feels tender in his chest. Tender, fond, lovely. Alive. His eyes trace the way Crowley’s hair falls over his head and curls around his ears. The way his breath comes in and out to the rhythm of his arms swaying flippantly with his gait. So many feelings swarm his chest, buzzed and unnamed. He’s a hurricane of what in the past he wouldn’t have paid attention to. 

It’s another thing Aziraphale is getting used to. Being with Crowley so openly. He doesn’t have to worry about getting into trouble anymore. He can just . . . Be. It’s refreshing. 

“What are you feeling?” Crowley says. “Italian? Thai?”

“Oh! Sushi, please,” Aziraphale says. “If you don’t mind, you know. It’s one of my abso _lute_ favorites. And I certainly have a craving now that I’ve started talking about it. Oh! Have you been to the place three blocks down? They have a _tremendous_ ice cream dessert there too!”

Crowley smiles the way he does, and to anyone else the shift in expression would have been unnoticeable. But Aziraphale knows it because he knows Crowley. Sometimes Aziraphale thinks he knows Crowley better than he knows himself. 

Aziraphale gives an entire run down of the menu as they walk. He talks excitedly, animatedly, with hands and expressions. Oh, he loves this. He loves the sky, he loves the air, he loves the pavement, he loves the clothes on his arms and back, he loves Crowley’s company, Crowley’s sunglasses and hair and skin and shirt and shoes and gaze and voice. He loves everything about this moment, loves talking to Crowley, no matter what he’s talking about. The walk is made ever shorter for it.

They sit side by side on the same side of the booth of the restaurant. The lighting is a dim orange, and Crowley is radiant under it. Aziraphale can hardly look away. But they’re handed menus and now there’s a more prevalent issue at hand. He reads each option carefully, smiling to himself. He’s just so happy, and the happiness flowers in his chest with such passion it feels like electricity. He loves sushi, and he loves Crowley. It’s so wonderful to have it all together.

“I think I’ll get the Shiki Tako,” Aziraphale says, and when he looks up Crowley is staring at him like he’s never looked away. It makes Aziraphale feel warmer for some reason. 

“Mm. Nice,” Crowley says. He leans back in the booth, and his arm drapes atop the back of the seat. “You can order for me.”

Aziraphale nods determinedly at such an important task. He looks back to the menu with renewed attention, this time considering what Crowley might enjoy, what he remembers of Crowley’s meals the previous days to see what might be new and exciting for him. He knows Crowley already had egg earlier this morning so maybe something with a nice crunch would pair nicely with that. His eyes scan down the items.

But from the menu his mind grows distracted. He thinks not only of what Crowley might have had to eat already, but also what he’s worn, the way he’s styled his hair lately, how he held his shoulders stiffer yesterday. He wonders if something happened. He thinks of how black is such a lovely color against the coolness of Crowley’s skin, how short hair suits him well. Oh— but everything suits Crowley well, now that Aziraphale gives it more thought. The true challenge is finding some article of clothing Crowley couldn’t make look incredible, any sort of hairstyle that would look ill-fitting. It would be a difficult feat indeed.

Oh, and Crowley is such an interesting being, too. Aziraphale feels his heart beat faster, his face flushes as his thoughts continue distracted. He thinks about how Crowley loves new experiences, thrives in novelty, yet needs an anchor and craves stability in a way he won’t acknowledge to himself. To the end of the world, Crowley will insist he hates the idea of being in one place too long, but isn’t that the whole point of stopping Armageddon? Retaining the anchor that is the earth? No, Crowley definitely needs that stability. Aziraphale would like to think himself able to provide that stability. 

They provide it for each other. Aziraphale doesn’t know what he would do without him. It’s a terrifying thought.

They have green tea. Aziraphale pours them both a cup and drinks it slowly. Aziraphale can feel Crowley’s gaze on him, but it isn’t disquieting. Instead, he somehow feels comfortable in it. He can feel the heat from Crowley’s arm behind his neck. The fingers move slowly, hesitatingly. Aziraphale feels a strange longing for them to touch him. He wonders how they would feel. If Crowley would touch him firmly or softly. Suddenly or gradually. Quickly or slowly.

The thought startles him, and he looks over at Crowley whose gaze then flickers away. It feels like a dance. Aziraphale allows himself to look a little longer before he looks away, too. He picks up his tea and brings it to his lips, and he feels Crowley watching him again. He smiles.

He really does love Crowley. But that’s because he loves everything, of course. Nothing unique about it. What kind of angel would he be if he didn’t love everything?

Their food arrives and Aziraphale leans forward to take a moment. Then he breaks the chopsticks apart, glancing over at Crowley.

“These are my absolute favorite,” Aziraphale says. “I don’t know if you’ve tried them, have you?”

He picks up a piece and holds it in front of Crowley’s lips which then close around the food. Crowley’s eyes are hidden behind his sunglasses, but Aziraphale feels his gaze hot on his skin. He chews slowly.

Crowley hums in contentment. “Mm-hmm,” he says. 

Aziraphale doesn’t know if that means he’d already had it before, or if he’s saying that he enjoyed the piece he’s gotten now. But it doesn’t matter, really. They eat their respective foods, and Aziraphale interjects with anecdotes about books that he’d been reading or things he’s seen in the news. Crowley responds every now and then, but more than in words he responds with his attention. It’s one of the things Aziraphale loves about Crowley. He always pays such close attention. To everything of course, Aziraphale rationalizes to himself. Crowley pays attention to everything, not just to Aziraphale.

They get the special ice cream desserts that Aziraphale loves, and when Aziraphale finishes his own, he pokes his spoon into Crowley’s bowl. Crowley’s been eating slowly today, Aziraphale notes; he notices because usually Aziraphale is the slower of the two of them. He tends to take his time, savor every bite, while Crowley just dives through it. 

“Is there something on your mind, my dear?” Aziraphale asks, licking his spoon clean.

Crowley tilts his head, changing his posture into something more comfortable. There’s a beat of silence where Crowley seems to consider his words. “Traffic cones,” he says.

Aziraphale laughs softly, scraping the bottom of Crowley’s bowl. “Is that so?”

“They don’t have much function, do they?”

“Well, they stop you from driving through places.”

“Mm . . . No they don’t.”

Aziraphale shakes his head fondly. He scrapes around Crowley’s bowl one last time as Crowley holds the check up to the waitress coming to collect. Then his arm settles back behind Aziraphale, and this time Aziraphale leans into it, just to see how it would feel. It’s warm. Comfortable. It feels like home. He loves it, wants more of it. He looks at Crowley just to see if he notices at all, but Crowley’s just looking at him with that same fondness he always has. His fingers rub against the wooden frame of the booth, inches from Aziraphale’s neck.

* * *

Crowley comes by the shop much more often now. It’s probably because it’s easier for Crowley to find Aziraphale than the other way around. It makes him wonder what Crowley does when he’s away. Aziraphale is restocking the shelves when he sees the romance book on the checkout desk again, the one he noticed yesterday. He thumbs through it again and flips to chapter one. 

Romance is something Aziraphale hadn’t really given much thought to. He hadn’t much interest, honestly. Any desire he felt he may have is fulfilled by Crowley’s companionship. With everything Crowley and he have been through together, how every void Aziraphale’s heart holds has already been filled by him— Aziraphale can’t imagine anyone rivaling that.

But the story intrigues him. It’s about a girl who finds herself enraptured by a man on her twenty-first birthday. It’s a complicated relationship, and as the story develops, you find out that the girl had long since been betrothed to someone else, as an arrangement made by her parents for political gain. She visits the one she loves in secret, forever afraid of being found out. There’s something about the relationship, the impossibility of it, the wrongness of it, the passion of it, that makes it worth it all the more.

Aziraphale sits in bed all night with the book, feeling strangely connected to it, not understanding why. He yearns to see the woman united with the one she loves, damning what anyone else might urge her to do. She is told over and over that her relationship with the man is unsightly and untimely. She wants to run away with him anyway. He wants her to, tells her he wants her to, but she’s stuck. As much as she wants to, she feels a duty to her mother and father, to her country. But is her duty worth losing the only thing that makes her feel really and truly alive?

He sets the book down on his chest, looking up at the ceiling. He’s only a third of the way through so far, and he wonders about the ending. Part of him doesn’t want to finish it so quickly. It feels important to him for some reason, like it holds the secret to something, the answer to something. He sets it aside. 

He absently wonders what that kind of affection is like. He wonders what it’s like to hold and be held, to kiss and be kissed.

His fingers raise to his lips, run along the edge. He looks in the mirror. 

* * *

The last of the customers trickle out as the clock displays ten minutes to midnight. Aziraphale doesn’t mind customers staying late. It isn’t like he needs to sleep, and he is always happy to help others find new reading material. He walks to the door and flips the open sign closed, and when he turns around, Crowley’s there, sitting in one of the chairs.

Aziraphale smiles at him. “Well, Hello,” he says, and walks to sit in the chair across from him. 

“Busy day, have we?”

“A bit, yes,” Aziraphale nods. “There was a new novel release just last week, and people have been coming in to get a copy. We’ve about run out of stock. Of course I could miracle some more, but it takes the fun out of it, you know? I’ve put in an order for some more, though. They should be here next week.”

“Mm,” Crowley hums, and Aziraphale gushes some more.

The clocks tick rhythmically, and Aziraphale leans closer. He’s suddenly regret taking the chair opposite Crowley instead the one next to him. They talk about nothing that matters, really, talk only to listen to each other’s voices. They take turns, sit back, and listen, listen like it’s music. It doesn’t matter what they talk about.

Eventually, Crowley says, “I brought you this.”

He holds up a potted plant. Something really marvelous, Aziraphale thinks, and he gets up to take it. Their hands brush for a moment and linger there. 

“Oh, she is lovely,” Aziraphale coos. “Beautiful.”

Crowley sneers, “Don’t call her that, she’ll get a big head.”

“She doesn’t _have_ a head,” Aziraphale retorts and carries the plant to a window sill. He tells the plant, “You’re doing a marvelous job.”

“You’re too nice. Nice doesn’t get you the best greenhouse in the United Kingdom.”

“Nonsense.” Aziraphale touches one of the leaves. They’re soft and well-looked after— or rather, well-grown. As much as Aziraphale expresses his disdain for Crowley’s treatment of plants, there’s no denying how truly gorgeous they are.

When Aziraphale takes a step back to return, he collides with Crowley’s chest. He hadn’t noticed him getting up.

“Oh,” he says, looking up at him. “Excuse me.”

There’s something tense about the moment. Aziraphale feels his breath heavy in his body. He’s too aware of his body, yet not entirely connected to it. He wants to move aside, but something keeps him anchored.

He wishes he could see Crowley’s eyes, and before he realizes what he’s doing, he reaches up and takes them off. He folds them and holds them between their chests, inches apart.

“What did you do that for?” Crowley asks, but something in his tone says that he already knows the answer. His gaze really is something else. It’s intense. Heated. Vivacious.

“I’m— I’m not sure, actually,” Aziraphale says, looking down briefly and then back up again. 

When they’re close like this it’s like they can breathe each other’s breaths. Aziraphale could drown here.

“Get me a drink,” Crowley asks, but not really asks. His intonation doesn’t change, and words are too heavy.

Aziraphale shakes himself out of whatever trance he was under.

“Yes, um, yes. Yes, of course,” He says, almost to himself. He wonders what has gotten into him. He’s been reading too much.

He goes to the cabinet where he’s left some bottles of wine. He feels Crowley watching him and relishes it. Something deep within him asks what he can do to keep Crowley watching him, what Crowley might want to watch him do.

He shakes his head. How untoward of him. Truly.

The wine glasses aren’t too difficult to reach, but Aziraphale stretches for them anyway, looking back at Crowley questioningly. Crowley’s head falls one side and to the other as he walks over to help. They’re shoulder to shoulder, sharing the same space. Where Aziraphale might have stepped back to allot more room, he stays put. Crowley crowds against him, and pleasure rushes through Aziraphale’s body as they touch. There’s no step backward when Crowley turns back towards Aziraphale. He pours the wine glasses without watching the fill line. They’re so close, and Aziraphale wants to be closer.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale smiles. His voice is something quiet and endearing. 

Crowley returns a knowing look. Aziraphale looks down and amusedly brings the rim of the glass to his lips.

Crowley drinks from the bottle and returns to seating area, this time sitting on the sofa, legs splayed carelessly in front of him. They look at each other from opposite sides of the room for a few moments, something unsaid hanging between them. It’s been like this a lot lately, actually, increasing in intensity every time they meet. Aziraphale can’t quite place what it is. He sips quietly from his glass, running his fingers over the sides of Crowley’s glasses, and Crowley looks back at him. 

Aziraphale walks slowly toward him, ever aware of the distance growing shorter. It feels like walking through a small, poorly-ventilated room in summer heat, wading through the thick air. He sits beside Crowley, far enough away not to immediately touch, but close enough to shift and touch in a way that might seem accidental.

Yes, it _has_ been like this a lot lately, and Aziraphale wonders what happens when the intensity becomes too much. Something daring, burning like fire deep within his being, tempts him to find out.

* * *

She chooses him.

Aziraphale is grinning as he reads. _She chooses him._ But is it really that much of a surprise? She couldn’t live without him. Aziraphale feels that deeply within his chest. He reads her leave her home, leave her country, and run away with the one she loves. The book still has some way to go, though. It’s difficult to read it because of how afraid Aziraphale is of the ending. He can’t bare the thought of it ending unhappily. He almost wants to stop now, dellude himself into thinking that’s it, that’s all there is, all there ever will be. Just she and him together.

Romance is a more familiar word at this point, and Aziraphale finds himself growing fond of it. He sees the allure of romance novels in a way he hadn’t before. They become the only genre he wants to read.

He walks through the bookshop and takes all of the most popular romance books to his room. He sits there all night, reading and reading. He leaves the first one, the one he can’t finish through just yet, he leaves that on his bedside, and for three sleepless days he stays in his bedroom reading all the others. They fill him with life, desire, and everything else. He wonders what it feels like for a human, in need and wanting of another. As an angel, he doesn’t feel that need. Angels don’t need companionship the same way they don’t need food or sleep. And yet, the same way Aziraphale loves food and sleep, he loves the idea of companionship.

The stars hang above him, and he lays back and closes his eyes. What would kissing feel like? For the first time? For the third? For the thousandth? Would it be like the first time he had french toast with eggs? And what would it sound like, what would it feel like? Like the rushing ocean current over his skin? Something all-consuming and unrelenting?

He allows himself to imagine it— soft lips, on his own. He imagines it quick, he imagines it slow.

And with sudden realization, he imagines something else. He imagines what Crowley kisses like. He wonders if he’s done it before, and he imagines he has. His heart begins to beat uncontrollably, his skin hot and his breaths quick and short. He feels, feels, _feels—_

Oh. 

_Oh no_.

Aziraphale sits up quickly, eyes wide and startled. He knows this feeling.

The feeling isn’t unfamiliar, only now it has a name. It’s like when a child first cries and their mother says, “It’s okay. It’s just sadness.” Only this time Aziraphale is the child, telling himself— It’s okay. It’s just love.

* * *

Aziraphale is on edge the next few days. He closes the shop. Forgets to clean, forgets to shower and redress himself, forgets he has the ability to do all that in the blink of an eye. 

He doesn’t know what to do. Does he do anything? He walks around the bookshop, alone in the dark, alone in the day. He walks down the streets of London, afraid of seeing Crowley at every turn. What if he acts differently? What if he gives it all away? Would Crowley do anything if he knew?

He tries to imagine what Crowley would say if he knew. He imagines Crowley scoffing, imagines him laughing, imagines him saying nothing at all. He imagines Crowley saying “I know,” because anyone would, because everyone loves him, because he’s that amazing of a personality. Anxiety eats him alive.

He gets drunk, but it doesn’t help because he only ever gets drunk with Crowley, and so it doesn’t distract him at all as much as makes it worse. He visits Southern Italy, loses himself in the Philippines. But his mind is a looping railway track carrying the train that is Crowley’s voice, his sound, his gait, his posture, his laughter and smirking face. 

He sits on the edge of a cliff in Ronda, Spain, lets his legs dangle off the edge as he watches everyone from a distance. They’re all so small. They have no idea how small they are.

Aziraphale hangs his head back and breathes in deeply. The air feels like it goes nowhere. 

“You’re a difficult one to find,” someone says behind him, and Aziraphale feels fear. Fear. Clutching him so tightly he can’t breathe. 

“Oh,” Aziraphale gasps. “Am I? I was just— just looking around, having a grand old time, quite honestly. These cliffs are lovely, you know. I don’t know if I prefer these or the ones in Greece, or if rivers are more sightly. It’s difficult to choose a landmark, you know. It’s almost like you wish you could see all of them at once— Perhaps that’s a thought. Manifest yourself in several places at once, just to see all the sights? Have you tried it?”

Aziraphale’s fall through the air, weighing nothing at all, like he’s never said them, and he feels it as it happens. Still he can’t stop rambling. He’s afraid if he stops talking Crowley will have a turn and he might say something Aziraphale doesn’t want to hear. Still his words punctuate the stillness between them. The longer the quiet stretches, the more unsettled Aziraphale becomes. He feels completely transparent, not knowing how or why.

“Why are you avoiding me?” Crowley answers instead, and comes to sit by him on the edge. He braces himself by leaning back on his forearms and looks up at Aziraphale from there.

“What? Avoiding you? Why— Why ever would you think that? Avoiding you? I wouldn’t avoid you, you’re my dearest friend, you know. Of course I’m not avoiding you.” Aziraphale’s words shoot out of him without his permission, like he can’t stop himself from talking. He looks straight ahead, and grips the grass tightly in his hands.

There’s another breath of quietness that tells Aziraphale he’s not convincing at all. Crowley just looks at him, like no matter what Aziraphale says Crowley will hear what he means whether he likes it or not. Perhaps it was inevitable. Perhaps this is all supposed to happen just like this.

“You’re tense,” Crowley says, and touches Aziraphale’s hand. It’s startling, amazing and brilliant and novel. Crowley strokes his hand until it unfurls and relaxes. Aziraphale can’t get his heart to stop beating so, so, so fast. He can’t look at Crowley. He doesn’t know what he’ll do.

“I read a book!” Aziraphale blurts. 

“A book?” Crowley asks in a tone that says _Are you fucking kidding me right now? What does that have to do with anything?_

“Um,” Aziraphale says. “Yes. It. I haven’t finished it, but it’s quite lovely really.” 

His chest is rampant, and something rips through him as he talks. He’s afraid, he’s so afraid of what will happen, but he can’t stop himself. He knows it won’t make any difference anyway because he can’t hide anything from Crowley. To hide something from Crowley is to hide something from himself. It really won’t work. Crowley knows him too well.

“It’s about this girl, and she— she’s not supposed to love this person, but she does anyway. She can’t help herself. And even, even if the entire world wants to keep her away from him, she’ll keep choosing him. He’s . . . Wonderful, and brave, and strong, and kind even if he doesn’t think he is. He makes her who she is, and she can’t imagine living without him.” Aziraphale then dares a glance at Crowley, there’s something about his expression Aziraphale can’t place. And now he can’t look away.

“And this book,” Crowley says thickly. “How does it end?”

Aziraphale smiles, almost bitterly, “Oh I don’t know. You see, I haven’t quite finished it yet. I’m afraid to.”

“Why?” Crowley sits up.

“What if he doesn’t stay with her?”

Aziraphale’s breaths are coming in and out so quickly now, his chest moving up and down, anxiety blooming into something else inside him. The entire moment feels so precarious, as if any word Crowley says could push Aziraphale forward and send him falling, falling downwards off the ledge. He wants to trust he’ll catch him.

“What if he does?”

Aziraphale looks at Crowley like he holds the entire world in his hand. And he does. At least, the only world that matters, the world with the two of them in it, together. He only wishes he could see his eyes.

And again, as if moved by some unknown force, Aziraphale reaches forward and takes off Crowley’s glasses. He hardly gets them past his nose before Crowley grabs Aziraphale’s hands, so firm in his own. 

“What did you do that for?” Crowley says, but this time the words are certain. They’re saying something else. The air around them is so heavy, like a blanket overtop of them, leaving them in their own world for no one else to peer in and look. They only have each other, can only see each other.

“I—” Aziraphale starts, and Crowley interrupts him.

Aziraphale finds out that Crowley kisses softly and thoroughly. With force enough to send Aziraphale backwards, but soft enough that there’s no jolting or suddenness. It’s . . . Lovely. It’s everything. Aziraphale kisses back tentatively, like he’s exploring, like he’s testing to see how far he can get.

Then Aziraphale is literally on his back, tumbling over as Crowley pushes him. Crowley laughs, something like music.

“You’re such a silly angel,” Crowley says. “I’ve been on your side for six thousand years, why would I stop now?”

Aziraphale blushes. “Oh, I, I don’t know,” he flounders. 

Crowley leans down and kisses him again. The second time is gentler than the first, wetter and slower. And from his back on the Spanish cliffside, Aziraphale looks up at the sky; the sun rises behind Crowley’s head like a halo. He kisses him again. And again. It’s unlike anything Aziraphale has ever known. He never wants it to end.

Again.

It’s new.

Again.

It’s unbelievable.

Again.

Again.

It’ll take some getting used to.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope it was a okay my dudes lol, comments highly appreciated, feed me
> 
> on tumblr I’m @softezrafell come say hi


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